The Return of the Eastern Elves
by Solarillio
Summary: Sometimes when you don't quite fit in, all you can do is let yourself change for the better as one Orc learnt. Redemption fic. AU-ish.


**AN**: Stupid plot bunnies... Hi just a little something I thought up. And the meaning of Eruedrathion is Salvation by God. So read enjoy the drabble and review.

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He knew he had always been just the slightest bit different.

It was a minute difference, barely there but there all the same. You see friend, he was an Orc – and a blacksmith – a good blacksmith at that. But that was not how he was different, no. After all, when it came to functional weapons and instruments of torture there was no race better.

So really, there was no way he was different. Except for the fact that he embellished the blades he crafted a little. A touch of scrollwork here. A glance of a rolling vine there. And that was just the start.

Soon enough he was tentatively branching out. A goblet for the use of their chieftain. More obvious decoration on the blades. Carvings on the bows he crafted. That was when he realised the slight difference had grown. But no one seemed to have noticed so he must be still fine.

Then came the loneliness. The need for companionship. There were no Orc females to mate with. And none wanted to partner for life. But he couldn't help but observe the other races. The Hobbits. The race of Men. The Dwarves and the Elves. And wonder what it would be like to have a family.

It was about this time when two things happened. He begun to hunt for his own meat, unable to bear the thought of feasting on his fellow Orcs. Funny how a few years ago he would not have minded but now he couldn't. The other thing was the ruins he stumbled upon.

Now Orcs had no formal language of their own. No written word, no separate tongue except for warfare. So when he stumbled across the ruins and some strange place deep within himself understood it, felt kin to it although he could not read it, the troubles began.

The first was during a hunt – the frightened man laid beneath him as he stood in a crouch ready to deal a death blow – but something stayed his hand. He quickly scanned his surroundings and told the man – "Go."

The second was when they came across an abandoned elvish camp. Immediately the rest of the party shied away from the supplies, throwing torches at it to burn the materials away into dust. He grabbed a length of elvish rope, admiring the quality and sturdiness of the material – it did not burn his touch.

The third was when Modor was destroyed. A bright light seemed to beckon to him – and he reached forth just as unbeknowest to him – the One Ring was destroyed. Then there was fire. Fire everywhere that scorched every cell of his being and burned like no other elvish material had ever done before he noticed his difference. It reminded him almost of a forging fire. And when the pain finally, finally ended, he knew the difference was even greater now. As far as east was from the west. So while the others were recovering from the loss of the Dark Lord Sauron, he dropped his blades and left. Heading back east from Gondor, to where Moria and Modor used to be.

Back to the ruins.

For a while he travelled alone and on foot. Foraging for roots and hunting where he could. Sometimes looking for work as a blacksmith – shoeing horses and mending ploughs but who would want to hire an Orc? Other time offering services as a hired blade, again who would want to hire an Orc? He couldn't blame them, all would distrust the race of his origin for a long while yet. They had after all caused them much grief and sorrow. So he wore his guilt like a shroud.

And his dreams didn't make it any easier. The faces of the beings he'd killed in cold blood haunted him. And so did the light. The forgiving, soothing light – the light that once burned him – comforted him at night, and he who felt he was among the most undeserving of creatures would let this light do what he, what mortal beings could not, forgive him.

This continued for a while. And at the end of the fourth month of travelling alone and on foot, he came across a village. Steeling himself he entered the village again to offer his services. He knew the glares and the poisonous words and spits well, and he accepted them, it was more than he deserved. Again he approached the local blacksmith and asked if he could help, bracing himself in a resigned manner he waited for the inevitable rejection. But something changed. Someone clapped him around the shoulders and spoke to the smith. All of a sudden he had a job and he turned to look at the man who gave him his first chance, he recognised him. The man he spared so long ago it seemed.

He stayed in that village for a time, and in that time he learnt many things. Concepts long lost to the Orcs that he rediscovered like truth, honour, family and friendship. His first friend turned out to be the man he spared, his teacher, the head of the village – Dallas. His first family was Dallas's wife and children. His first home was a room in theirs, a small room, with a bed and a wash stand and a work table for the jewellery and more delicate metal crafts he did, and last a full length mirror a piece he turned around immediately, not wanting to see the image of the murderer he had been.

It is well known that an inner beauty and wisdom can shine through the most disgusting of visages, and sometimes, people can overlook this to see the creature within rather than the outside physique. The most handsome king could be as ugly as a goblin, while the most gnarled beggar could truly be the most beautiful woman. As it was, sometimes, the inside can transform the outside. And change, as it oft is, is subtle.

As he continued to live amongst the villagers, and as the light continued to stay with him, the inner difference between him and the other Orcs began to take hold. His greyish tinted skin begun to have a peach undertone and hue. The jaundiced yellow and the bloodshot tinge of his eyes began to clear as his pupils receded and the murky hue of his irises started to clarify. Dark hair began to grow in waves as his jaw line squared, nose reformed and scars faded. The bulk of his muscle dropped as his spine straightened, growing regal as his frame became more slender.

Nobody noticed really, it happened so slowly over such a long period of time (three years in fact) that it was only when another stranger wandered into the village and found an _elf_ working as a _blacksmith_ and asked him why he decided to wander instead of staying with his kind that he stared at him confused and told him in a voice like but unlike what it used to be – not that anyone had noticed – that he was an Orc. That was an interesting conversation.

And so that night he turned the mirror in his room around, with eyes closed before opening them. Not quite believing his eyes he gasped and stared at the mirror for a while.

An elf stared back at him through the mirror. Dark hair which would have fallen in waves to his shoulders was tightly scraped back into a ponytail surrounded a noble-looking face. Eyes were now clear, an almost turquoise-y colour in his irises. Everything was in proportion, from the new nose to the smaller, straightened ears. His skin was almost unrecognisable; no scars were visible on the pale skin encasing his frame. He stood straight and tall, in a stranger's posture, in a stranger's skin.

Over a week, he gathered his things and Dallas and his family watched him.

"You're leaving?"  
"Yes."

He had been silent till then, and the sound of his own voice startled him. He could still recognise it was his, but it was different enough – smoother, warmer – that he couldn't help but look around for the speaker for a second before he remembered, it was him.

"Why?"  
"I need to know."  
"We will miss you my friend."  
"And I you."

He secured all his belongings on his horse and led the beast into the distance as the village turned out to wish him farewell.

Instead of heading east to the ruins, he wandered. Eventually he stumbled across Galadriel's company. They could still feel the taint about him, but let him pass as she gestured for him to come forward. She was such a bright being, but it did not burn him as it once would have.

"Welcome brother."  
"I'm not your brother."  
"No? Are you not an elf?"  
"No."  
"Then what you say you are."  
"An Orc."  
"Are you sure."  
"I… I don't know any longer. Please, tell me, why am I like this? Why am I different?"  
"You have been different for a while, searching for something more, something higher. And then when the ring was destroyed, that something reached out to you, and you accepted it, mind, body and spirit. It changed you, made you a new being."  
" I don't understand."  
" You have become a new creature, or rather, you have become the creature you have always meant to be."  
"An elf?"  
"I believe so. Tell me, do you know the origins of the Orcs?"

She spun a tale of horror and sorrow. Of a remaking of a race and the twisting of lives and minds. All he could do was listen quietly and at the end of the tale, ask her quietly, if there was anything he could do.

"Live Eruedrathion of the Eastern Elves. Live. Find others like you for you have given us hope. Hope that one day our eastern brethern will one day stand amongst us again."  
"Why do you call me that?"  
"Because that's who you are, Eruedrathion, saved and redeemed. Your Orc self is past and you are a new creature in the light."

Some months later Eruedrathion made his way back to the ruin of the city of the ancient Eastern Elves. He glanced behind him, the contingent of transitioning Orcs to Elves behind him. Some were close to becoming fully elf, like him. Some had only the inner change to prove them as different. But he smiled as he looked about his people.

They were free.


End file.
